


A Far Cry

by CeruleanMusings



Series: With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Wept [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, Hair-pulling, Punishment, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanMusings/pseuds/CeruleanMusings
Summary: As a boy, the only thing the Weeping Monk wanted to do was to make his father proud. His father has high expectations that he can't reach but he'll try anyway. No matter what happens when he fails.
Relationships: Father Carden & Weeping Monk
Series: With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Wept [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840252
Comments: 23
Kudos: 102





	A Far Cry

He blinked the sweat away from his tired, burning eyes and steadied his grip on the sword. It was much too heavy, and longer than one a boy such as he should be wielding. But Father said in no uncertain terms that he was to master the sword or else he was to forgo food for the night. He dragged a tongue across his dry, cracked lips, accepting the sting. It was a fleeting pain, one that couldn’t be compared to the pang of hunger curdling in his stomach. It had been days. He needed to succeed.

His fingers throbbed as they tightened around the hilt of the sword, his breaths evening from his body-wracking haggard pants. It was much too hot for a boy such as he to be out, pushing his body to new heights, his head covered by a thick hood. It scratched against his cheek and kept his breaths, hot and thick, trapped around his neck. Father told him to wear it, it was for his own good. Father only wanted what was best for him. Father wouldn’t steer him wrong.

“Again!” Father’s voice cracked through the silent woods.

All at once the man across from him, draped in the traditional clothing of his brothers, one of the other Red Paladins, rushed at him like a raging tide. The sword dragged against the ground behind the boy as he forced his tired, weak legs to move forward, to carry him, to do what Father asked of him. He had to make Father proud.

With a roaring cry, the Paladin towered over him, sword drawn, face twisted in a snarl. The boy looked up at him, into his eyes. Always into their eyes. It wasn’t the soft parts of the body that left people exposed, the boy had learned, it was the eyes. They were the key. They gave everything away: direction, intention, thoughts, weaknesses, truth. He would know, he’d become intimately aware of his reflection, marked from birth, since he was a young lad.

Grunting, the boy ducked away from the charging Paladin. The tip of his sword still dragged against the ground, slowing him down, but that was what he needed. The Paladin was much too fast, uneven, unbalanced. He took time to right himself in the space that the boy needed to become oriented and close in from behind. A swipe of his sword nearly knocked the boy off balance but, with gritted teeth, he held himself steady and watched his aim ring true as the tip of his blade caught the back of the Paladin’s robes.

The audible rip and tear of fabric burst into the quiet tree line, the tall and quiet spectators to the spar. The Paladin turned, charging again, rushing at the poor boy with a force of a bear that made the boy hesitate. Too slow. He brought his sword up, blocked an overhead chop, and allowed the follow through to carry his arms upwards by his ear. The fluidity of the Paladin’s follow-up strike came towards his side and he tensed, ready for the pain of the offending blow, for the result of his mistake, when the flat side of the blade smacked heavily against his hip.

The vibrations of metal on bone shot up and down his leg, a hollow thrumming of his defeat. Grunting, the boy fell to his knees, his sword landing a heavy thud on the ground. His dirty hands clasped his hip as the strange tremors settling down towards his foot, as if his nerves all became livewires at once.

Exhaustion weighed down his limbs and he slumped over, settled against the ground. His stomach screamed for food. The dirt beneath his cheek was cool on his heated, sweaty skin, and when he was yanked to his feet by a painful grip to his hair, little clumps dangled by the corner. His attempts to spit them away were futile.

“My son.” Father’s hot breath brushed against his cheek before a yank drew his head backwards. His eyes, heavy with marks beneath the lids, turned up towards the sky. The endless stretch of blue above that looked inviting, captivating, so close he could touch and dip his fingers into the smooth pool. He could reach out for help, for His Grace to come and give him a break. To allow him rest that eluded him so. And he stared and he hope and he called out as Father spoke, “You do not show improvement, my son. I have spent much time on you, and this is what you have to show? You are better than this. You _will_ be better than this.”

Father’s finger’s curled tighter in against the shafts of hair in his tight grip. Pops and rips sounded by the boy’s ears and he was sure a few strands had been pulled out, but he remained silent. He closed his eyes to the throbbing pain, the growing fire upon his head. He swallowed thickly, pushing down the lump that had risen in his throat at his father’s command. Yes, he would be better. He would do better. He would make Father proud. Because then Father would continue to protect him. Because then Father would love him.

The sticks and roots on the dirt floor bit at his hands and knees when he was thrown downwards. The boy, weak and frail, used the remaining strength he had to keep himself upright. He would not fall, not in front of his father. Not in front of the Paladin. He was strong. He had to be.

His fingers dug into the dirt, sifting through the loose earth that darkened with each dot of sweat that fell from his face. Plink, plink, plink, a solitary tune swallowed up beneath the canopy of tall trees huddled above him, judging. His fingers brushed against a ripped-up leaf; his finger took on a light green tinge. The boy sucked in a breath. _No! This wasn’t supposed to happen! It was forbidden!_

“Come,” Father ordered. The boy tensed at the bitter tone; the disgust wrapped up within that one word. His spine stiffened and he braced himself for the rough grab to his forearm by the Paladin. His head hung, defeat weighing down upon him as he was pulled to a nearby tree and shoved up against it. The rough bark scratched his chin; sweat or tears popped up on his lower rim, he didn’t want to put a name to his shame.

“Is this necessary?” the Paladin asked. The boy didn’t need to turn his head to see the question was directed at his father. It would remain unanswered. Yes, it was necessary, the boy filled in for him. He had failed. He needed to be punished. He needed to learn.

He needed to break.

Everything stilled. The trees didn’t sing, the birds in the distance, once so lively, were silenced. The boy held his breath, closed his eyes, and steeled his nerves. Time ticked by. The boy pushed a breath through his nose, sucked in another shaky breath and waited. And waited. And waited. He opened his eyes. Was this another test? Did he fail? Was this—?

_Crack!_

Fire licked up the boy’s back and his scream of pain ripped out of his throat, embedding straight into the bark by his mouth. Hot tears dripped down his cheeks, tracing the marks beneath his lower lashes like well-worn grooves.

He felt his skin splitting open as the whip withdrew, a throbbing, vicious slice rubbing from shoulder blade to hip. Wind kicked up, brushing against his back, like a hand dragging salt against the wound. His legs shook and his breaths hitched as he heard the familiar swoosh slicing through the air.

_Crack!_

Another hit to his back. He managed to swallow his scream this time. This following whip was a punishment for the first one, for being weak, for feeling too much, for allowing his pain to be so palpable. He closed his eyes again, the image of the tree bark hovering in the black space in front of him. He traced the grooves and the cracks of the bark, forced his mind away, settled deep within a forest to hide as another strike burned on his back.

And another. And another.

His teeth clenched, his nose scrunched, tears cut through the dirt smeared on his cheeks, blood rushed in his ears, and still he didn’t move away from the tree. That would be bad. He couldn’t be bad. He had to be good. He had to be perfect.

Then he heard it. The whistling of metal through the air. Wind shifted by his face. His eyes popped open and he threw himself away from the tree. Again, he found himself on the ground, crouching, reaching out his arms in front of himself, lowered his hand, placed his hands together as he prayed to His Grace above for guidance. For help. For a path.

He lifted his head, looked upwards, and gaped at the stretch of darkness looming above. He lowered his head again, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, tears dripping off his face. Plop, plop, plop. Behind him, he heard the vibration of a dagger nestled in the side of the tree, shaking due to the force of the strong throw.

Footsteps shuffled above him. Father’s shoes appeared at the tips of the boy’s fingers. The boy sighed, forcing his sobs to quiet. Everything would be okay. Father was here.

“It’s getting late,” Father said. “We must return home.” His feet turned. The boy moved to get up but a heavy push to his shoulder kept him down. He lowered his head further. The tip of his nose pressed into the dirt. His back throbbed. A worm dug into the ground by his eye.

“What about Weeper?”

Father was silent. Then. “Leave him be.”

The boy gasped. His body trembled. No, no this couldn’t be. _Father…_

“Father Carden, it is to be dark soon.”

“I said leave him!” Father barked. The boy, Weeper, winced at the disgust spat at him. Not unlike the actual glob of spit that Father aimed his way. It landed between his hands, in the triangle space left between his praying position. A mark against him. “He is to find his way back on his own.”

Weeper listened, still crouching, as Father and the Paladin walked away from him, their footsteps fading in the distance, leaving him alone. Once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I’ve fallen into a new fandom and that is Cursed on Netflix. Which is a book written by Thomas Wheeler but since I’ve only seen the Netflix show this work is set in that universe. And, of course it is about the Weeping Monk because, bias for the actor aside, I loved his story arc. 
> 
> That being said, I’m so nervous about writing for him so if you like this please let me know what you think! Either way I plan on writing more for him and the show because I enjoyed it a lot! Edit: This can now also be found on Fanfiction.net


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